


Take me walking if you go, round the walls of St. Malo

by nightofdean



Series: bitter news [2]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M, young pope inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29165214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightofdean/pseuds/nightofdean
Summary: Francis has doubts in the wake of tragedy. Sidney Freedman juggles the responsibility of repairing a priests faith and navigating the politics of god.
Relationships: Sidney Freedman/Father Francis Mulcahy
Series: bitter news [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140974
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Take me walking if you go, round the walls of St. Malo

He knelt down in front of the cot, arms raised hands splayed, head tilted toward the sky, Francis spoke to the only entity there, “Forgive me Lord, I misspoke when I said I doubted you. Forgive me Lord, I didn’t know what I was saying, when I said those things. When I said, I had no faith. When I said I had more faith in myself then in You.”

“Forgive me Lord, for I was foolish to presume I had the ability to strike down one of Your children. Forgive me Lord, to assume I could hold a candle to Your magnificence, I misspoke. I always knew it was You. From the beginning I knew it was You who healed the sick and took that boys life. Forgive me Lord, forgive me.”

Francis bowed his head in sublimation and exhaustion, hand resting on the cot as he breathed finally, deeply. His other hand, a rosary wrapped around it pressed a cigarette to his lips as he inhaled and exhaled smoke. Francis pressed a hand to his forehead, glistening with sweat – forming thanks to the dread humidity – and pushed at the source of a growing headache.

It did little to alleviate the pang at his temple where sleep had evaded him for the past week. A shower and a cup of coffee in the mess would have to suffice for the time being, he compromised to himself.

So it was that he found himself nursing a warm mug, as Sister Theresa joined him, her own mug freshly steaming. Francis stared into his coffee, dark as night, he tried to ignore the oppressive silence that surrounded them in the chatter of the mess tent.

“Should I say it bluntly or do I need to refresh your memory?”

Francis’ tilted his head, looked up, “On what matter?”

“Your homily,” she said, pausing as a corpsman walked past.

“Morning Sister,” he nodded at them both, “Father.”

Sister Theresa and Father Mulcahy nodded in turn at the corpsman.

Sister Theresa continued, “Your homily, to put it lightly, Father, did not put my nuns at ease and,” she said, before pausing to take a sip of her coffee, “if they were not comforted by your homily. Which was meant to inspire peace and faith in the fearful, after a regrettable tragedy, I fear for your flock’s wellbeing.”

Francis was silent for a moment, coffee untouched, the chaotic symphony of the mess nearly drowning in its disorder. Yet, not overwhelming, the mess was loud and noisy, but it did not overwhelm.

“Are you going to just sit there?” said Sister Theresa, hands resting on the wooden table, fingernails picking at a splinter.

Francis looked at Sister Theresa, at her angular face, jaw line, and cheek bones. Her brown eyes were sharp, yet held a soft warmth, Francis saw her watching him carefully.

“Let them,” he said, sitting up and looking around the mess at the faces of nurses, orderlies, and Doctors and surgeons. Laughing, joking, and dancing in place, mostly carefree on the surface unless you ignored the careworn worry lines of fear.

“Let – “ she began, before shaking her head – habit falling over her shoulder – she took a small breath, “May I ask, Father, why you would rather leave your flock drowning in fear then to comfort them?”

Francis sighed, mouth falling open slightly as he did so, he gazed up as if tired of the conversation.

“Fear is the greatest tool we have to transmutation.”

Sister Theresa narrowed her eyes on Francis, “What you are suggesting is dangerous, Father?”

Francis said nothing in response.

“Father, you have always been a proponent of _via media_ why change now?”

“I find the middle way is too soft of an approach,” he said, hand raising touching his lower lip, “I found a better way. My way.”

“And what is that, may I ask?”

Francis gazed through the gauze-y walls of the tent – at the soldiers milling about the compound. “That I will reveal later.”

* * *

From a certain distance the sight of Sister Theresa and a soldier talking was not unusual. Their conversation hushed by the constant thrum of activity of the 4077th. A sound Sister Theresa was beginning to become grateful for as this was a private conversation.

“This could be a simple case of projection, Sister,” said Sidney, hardly believing the narrative Theresa had related to him. Still turning the possibility over in his head.

“I am certain of my feelings. I have no doubt about this, Doctor,” said Sister Theresa, scanning the psychiatrists face looking for further traces of doubt and or suspicion.

Sidney frowned, rubbing a hand roughly over his scalp, “And what is it you suspect he is planning?”

At this she could only hold her breath, letting it out shakily, “He won’t tell me. Even at my insistence,” she said, looking to the muddy ground, “I have –,” she paused, hands clasped firmly together now, “faith in him. Yet his homily, for the service – I hope you understand was worrisome.”

Sidney nodded slowly, “I got the broad strokes of it. If I’m not misinterpreting what he said, if you’ll forgive me – it was –.”

Sister Theresa interrupted him, holding up a hand, “You are correct, Doctor.”

Sidney’s mouth opened slightly, not much shocked him out here in the front anymore as he again tried to make sense of what Sister Theresa was implying. No, not implying, confirming. Which only complicated the conversation they were currently having.

The only thing he couldn’t figure out was why Sister Theresa had chosen to tell him. Much less why Francis had spoken to him initially of his doubts.

“Has he said anything to you?” she said, looking directly at him.

“How did you know that?” Sidney said, the professional inside surprised and offended at another knowing about a conversation that hadn’t even been protected.

“So, he has,” she said, examining her clasped hands, mouth pulling downward.

Sidney felt entirely out of his depth as he realized what had just happened. There were elements at play he had no idea were on the board – didn’t even know he was a piece being played.

He swallowed thickly, “What is your investment in him, really, Sister?”

Sister Theresa stood up taking several steps away, her rope-belt swaying as she did so, “My only investment is the Church, and that her image remains untainted.”

Sidney held his true feelings on that matter behind his teeth, “Then you have a lot of work ahead of you, Sister.”

* * *

He smiled genially down at the 4077th glad to see them filling Saint Peter’s Square, he raised his hand, the crowed erupted in cheers. Francis felt a warmth fill his chest and belly, that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but the presence of God’s love.

Francis lowered his arms, and looked down at the pre-written Angelus, he smiled back at the crowd waiting silently in anticipation.

He sighed and spoke.

“We have forgotten God, and my children, that is the worst sin of all. We have forgotten how to love. We must open the doors of the Church to all of God’s children. I say we _must_ open her doors to the Protestants, to all the Christians of the world.

We must pray with our fellow man; we must love our fellow man as our women. We Catholics have forgotten how to love we must -,” he looked down at the crowd, smiling down at them, “love freely and from now on all Catholics must love their neighbors.” The crowd cheered in agreement, clapping, and smiling.

“In fact, I _order you_ to love as God would. I say it is time that men love men out in the open, and priests be allowed to marry, and nuns have the right to perform the sacraments. We have forgotten God’s grace and strayed from His message of love.

Now, let us pray.”

The crowed stared at the balcony of the Papal Palace, mixed faces of confusion and agreement on those of laity and clergy alike. The square was completely silent, few bowed their heads in prayer. The announcement completely shocking and outrageous.

Francis started down at the crowd confused by the silent shock of the faithful, wasn’t he Pope now, they should be grateful for his pronouncement. A voice broke through his uncertainty.

“Francis, what are you doing?”

He turned around. It was Cardinal Reardon, “Get down from there, you are not the Pope, don’t you remember you are done with God.”

Francis jolted awake back in his cot – he had never left it – and stared at the ordinary canvas ceiling. He frowned at it, “What is that supposed to mean?”

* * *

Sidney sat beside Francis in the mess – it was late into the night, yet that never seemed to make a difference. Sidney decided to cut through the vague cryptic speech clergy seemed to favor.

“I had to most interesting conversation with Sister Theresa earlier in the evening,” Sidney said, as he took a sip of coffee, looking at Francis over the mug, “care to explain.”

“I had the most outrageous dream tonight,” answered Francis by way of acknowledgment.

Sidney breathed through his nose if that was Francis’ idea of an answer.

“I said the most outrageous things, it was quite funny actually,” Francis said, into his mug.

“Really, what did you say?” said Sidney, finding himself distracted by the story anyway.

Francis chuckled lowly, “Oh I dare not repeat it.”

“Tell me anyway, maybe I can reveal something to you,” said Sidney, if he could learn one thing that was going on inside Francis’ skull that would be a step forward.

Francis smiled slightly, “It’s quite silly. I was in the Basilica Frank and Henry were slapping each other. I gave the most outrageous Angelus to the faithful.”

“Angelus?”

“What a speech is called when the Pope gives it.”

Sidney’s brows rose, he smiled slightly, “You were the pope in your dream?”

“Yes, is that so strange?” said Francis, only wanting to forget the dream and the things he said. Most of all Cardinal Reardon’s accusations, the plain factual way he had said so.

_You are done with God._

“I just barely got started,” Francis muttered to himself.

“What?” said Sidney, tilting his head in question.

“Nothing, it is nothing.”

Sidney suppressed a sigh, glad that Francis wasn’t a patient, and wondering if perhaps he should be. Yet, the man’s mind remained a steal trap, if he had shell shock or any of the problems the soldiers on the front had, it was undetectable.

Sidney cleared his throat attempting to change the topic, “Sister Theresa says you gave quite the homily the other day. Now, I’m not one to believe –.”

Francis rolled his eyes imperceptibly, “Dr. Freedman, the worst thing you could do in the Church is believe rumors. Rumors in the clergy circulate faster than change in doctrine.”

Sidney nodded, considering his mind for the scientific method demanded evidence that disputed what he feared. And what he feared could happen, “Some rumors have a kernel of truth to them.”

Francis looked up sensing a conflict in perception, “No. You may call it rumor. In the Church it is known as _calumny._ ”

Sidney bit down all the questions he had, nothing was making sense anymore. The closer he got to Francis the more reason failed him.

Reason completely failed Sidney on Halloween, as he witnessed something completely impossible.

* * *

Cardinal Reardon and Sister Theresa sat at the officers table – opposite them sat the drafted surgeons and Colonel Potter – Francis sat uncomfortably beside Cardinal Reardon.

“That homily was beautiful Father, I could truly feel the presence of the Holy Spirit,” said Sister Theresa.

“Indeed, what Sister Theresa says is correct. The Holy Spirit illumined you,” said Reardon, completely sincere and warmly.

Francis tried not to smile in thanks, “That is far too kind,” he said.

“Ah, but it is correct and not the first time the Holy Spirit has breathed in you,” said Reardon, smiling like he had won at poker, and was about to reveal his hand, “I talked to your mentor recently.”

Internally Francis panicked this was the last thing he wanted. For the 4077th to be made aware of a childish exploit, of a coincidence that had blown out of proportion. He hadn’t done anything really.

“Twice now, is it?” said Sister Theresa, “A living saint.”

“I am not,” he said, leaning over the table to better see Sister Theresa, “and you should know better than to encourage such talk.”

Cardinal Reardon chuckled heartily, “Relax, Father, our sister is merely excited as would any Catholic be at being in the presence of say Padre Pio.”

Francis looked sick at the comparison.

At his expression, Colonel Potter chose then to step in, “While I love to hear you clergymen – and women – talk care to explain all this saint talk?”

If he had been able to Francis would have sunk in his seat, but as it was a bench he could not.

Cardinal Reardon chuckled, “Father Mulcahy, is responsible for two miracles.”

“Don’t encourage it.”

“I will only tell the story, and then they can decide.”

Francis stood up from the bench, “Then I will go,” Francis said, as he exited the mess.

Colonel Potter appeared worried as Francis left, the others watching him leave, Cardinal Reardon assured them it was for the best.

* * *

“Do you have anything you want to share with me?”

“I fear the entire camp has made a mistake in putting their faith in me,” he said, staring into the distance, “I have doubts about this war. I suppose a reasonable statement – and one you may have heard before.”

“Yet, it is more than that. I doubt my ability to do the job required of me. Rather the one you all expect of me, now that Cardinal Reardon has revealed those secrets I held close.”

Sidney spoke up, reassuring, “I promise no one will expect you to perform beyond your abilities.”

Francis smiled faintly, “I know that, but you will anyway. You will hope and then when you don’t get what you want. You will doubt,” he said, sighing heavily, pressing a wrinkle out of his pants, “Which is why I have chosen to doubt for you.”

“More than that, my friend,” he said, looking directly at Sidney, voice soft, “I simply doubt.”

Sidney did not return the gaze of his friend, as what felt like a fist formed in his throat. He swallowed thickly, pushing it down to form a reply, “You cannot say those things, Francis.”

In the filtered gauze-y light of the Swamp’s walls he desperately wanted to hold Francis’ hand, to replace his hand with the rosary Francis was worrying between his fingers. Instead, Sidney gripped his own hands clutching them in a vice grip in fear of what he might do if he didn’t.

“Have you told anyone else what you’ve told me?” he asked.

“No, only you. I couldn’t trust anyone else,” Francis said, reassuring and warm, despite what he had quite informally confessed.

Somehow Sidney found the courage to look at Francis and saw the strained expression of grief on his face. Being the confidante and sole informal confessor to the camp chaplain, somehow made this more complicated and terrifying.

* * *

Sidney sighed heavily as the sound of a basketball pinging against the ground drifted through the air, he looked at his companion. Francis watching the nuns as they played a game no more competitively than children might.

He gestured at them, “They say you are like a saint.”

Francis chuckled softly, “We talked about this, Sidney.”

“Right,” Sidney agreed, remembering feeling for once moored to reality, “calumny.”

“But I thought a saint was not such a bad thing to be.”

“A dead saint, perhaps,” he said, watching the basketball change hands, “living saints are… inconvenient.”

Sidney breathed softly through his nose, “But you can see how they look up to you?”

“Yes, and it has not eased my doubts,” said Francis, and looked away from the temporary court, “though they are less frequent.”

Sidney sat up, meeting Francis’ gaze, “Your doubts have been eased?”

“It seems I’ve found faith in a most unlikely place,” he said, a smile transforming his face, “or rather in a person. I am not like a saint Sidney but, this person is more saintlike than any priest I know.”

“Who is this special person?” asked Sidney at a loss for who could be the center of Francis’ faith.

This time an errant basketball didn’t interrupt their conversation as Francis’ only answer was a searching – no examining, cataloguing eyes flitting over Sidney’s face – stare like Francis was memorizing his face.

Sidney swallowed thickly.

_Oh._

Francis stood up Sidney, looked up at his back as Francis suddenly hunched over gripping his chest and falling over. Sidney jumping to action right away, laying his body across his lap, the nuns who were previously playing a simple game rushed over, all shouting for a doctor.

Except Sidney was a doctor and he was useless.

Sidney threaded his fingers around Francis’ wrist feeling for a pulse – that much he could do – and found a weak pulse.

Which got steadily weaker as he heard the doctors' push through the throng of nuns' surrounding them. Finally, Hawkeye pushed through, they made eye contact; Sidney saw Hawkeye see Francis crumpled over his lap holding his hand.

Hawkeye felt for a pulse, dangerously weak; his face pinched into that look of determination and orders were given.


End file.
